Wishful Thinking
by Santrea
Summary: Ryou hates his body. Want to know why? Then read.


Disclaimer: Do you really think I own YGO? I didn't think so. A/N: This fic deals with Ryou's feeling of hatred towards himself because he is a guy. Please if this offends you don't read this.  
  
Unfulfilled Wishes  
  
I hate who I am you know. I hate this body. It's a lie. This is not who I am. But I'm stuck like this. I will never be who I want to be. I will always be Bakura Ryou; the boy. Never, never, never will I be who I want.  
  
It's not fair, you know. That my body is so feminine. It's not fair that when I was younger and, sometimes even now, people think I'm a girl. That makes it hurt so much more. Because I want more than anything to be what they think I am.  
  
When I was little my sister and I would sneak into my mother's room and we'd paint ourselves with her makeup. I would put a little lipstick on and Amane would brush the blush across my cheeks. I would tell her to close her eyes an then I'd smooth the eye shadow over her lids. For her I'd choose emerald green and for me lavender. I was so little that no one thought anything of it. Sometimes when she and I would run out of the bedroom shouting for mother to look at us, "See how pretty we are mommy?", there would be guests and they'd coo over me saying what a darling little girl I was. Then my mother would explain I was a boy and that Amane must have made me put on makeup again. She would lead me out of the parlor, taking my small hand in hers, and when we reached the bathroom she would wipe the makeup off and her eyes always looked so sad.  
  
I didn't understand then. But I do now. I will never be a girl and I shouldn't want it. My mother understood that, she understood how my life was going to be if I wanted this. That's why when I was five she took it upon herself to explain things to me.  
  
It was another one of those times when she had led me away from the embarrassed looking guest with a grim smile. I remember the way the soft cloth felt as it wiped the magic away. "Ryou," she said, "honey, you can't put my makeup on anymore. Ok? You're a boy, dearest. Boys don't wear makeup. I'm sorry honey." This to my tears as they spilt down my face the eyeliner making black streaks against my skin. She wiped those off too. After that I would watch Amane as she put on the lipstick, eye shadow, and blush. I would shake my head when she called to me. I can't do that anymore sister. It's not allowed. She would pout and I would go over to her and put her makeup on. That was enough to make me happy then. But not anymore.  
  
Now there is no mother to steal makeup from, no Amane to transform with rouge. And I'm all alone with only this cursed body and a spirit who mocks me. He laughs as I gaze wistfully at the girls in my class putting makeup on after the bell has rung. They'll giggle and smile putting a little blush on the other's cheeks and straightening their hair because they're meeting their boyfriends by the school gates.  
  
I don't really remember when I thought I could just buy a little makeup, that it would heal this hurt. Maybe for a little bit it did. I would wander into the local drugstore and pick up a bit of eye shadow one time, some lipstick the next, a little gloss here, concealer, blush, eyeliner, whatever caught my eye. It didn't matter if the clerk saw me. I moved so much at that time that I would be gone within a few weeks anyway.  
  
I would sit in front of the mirror applying the make up with an unsure hand. I had read a few how-to articles in some girl magazines I had but I still wasn't sure what I was doing. Luck was on my side, though now I have to wonder if I was lucky at all. One day I was wandering around the mall looking for a birthday present for my mom when I saw Anzu, Mai and Shizuka gathered around the makeup counter. I walked over to them just around the time when Anzu got in the chair near the counter. The representative was explaining what colors would look best on Anzu and how to put the make up on. I struck up a conversation with Shizuka but really I was listening raptly to everything the makeup lady had to say. When the girls had left I bought some makeup, saying it was for my mother's birthday. It wasn't a complete lie, some of it was.  
  
At home I sat before the mirror doing every thing the woman had told Anzu. When I was finished I almost ruined everything by crying. The spirit laughed at me, "Silly little Ryou, you think a little makeup will make something you will never, ever be."  
  
He does that all the time now. He knows it's the truth and that's why it hurts. It shatters my little dream bubble and the shards all fall right into my heart. So many nights I have been lying in bed, makeup on my face, crying because of the truth. I will never be a girl.  
  
I should have known that the makeup would not be enough. I wanted the clothes, now. Dresses, skirts, the tight pants that hang low on your hips, shirts that are only a few strips of cloth sewn together. I wanted them, needed them. I took to fashioning makeshift dresses with bed sheets pinning them closed with bright broaches I bought from the store. The other me would laugh, like always. Sometimes he would take my body over at night and rip the sheets to shreds and break the broaches. When I woke up their ruins would be resting at the foot of my bed, like a million broken promises. He always does enjoy making me cry.  
  
It took me so long to work up the courage to buy a pair of girl's jeans. In the end, I wanted them so badly I couldn't resist any longer. I rode the train to a city far enough away that no one would recognize me and bought them. They are beautiful and my favorites still although now I have about seven more pairs. They were probably the simplest of all the others on the rack; dark blue that rested on my hips snugly, clinging to my legs, making them looks shapely. They came with a black scarf that was meant to be a belt, it beaded ends clinked and fluttered as I spun in front of the dressing room mirror that day.  
  
I returned to that store with ever increasing frequency. The sales girls came to know me by name and would tell me I looked very good in the clothes I bought. Now I'm comfortable enough with them to model the clothes for them allowing them to make suggestions on what top looks best with which pair of shoes or what pants look the best on me.  
  
I have a closet in my house that is just for those clothes. There is a padlock on the door but I know that won't stop my other if he wants in. But he hasn't done anything yet and it's been almost half a year since my first trip to that store. Sometimes I wake up expecting to find all of my dresses ripped to shreds, the threads pulled from my scarves, the rest of the clothes burnt, my makeup emptied into the sink, and all my hair products flushed down the toilet. So far I've been lucky but he's only waiting so it'll hurt more, I know.  
  
I have been lucky in all things but this: my gender. One different chromosome could have changed everything and I would never have to feel this way. But I wasn't lucky and I will never be who I know I should be. My happiness is fleeting; it relies on a few scraps of cloth and mixtures of chemicals and pigment. I will always hate myself even when I look like a girl to the rest of the world. Because I'm not a girl. I will never be a girl. And I hate that. 


End file.
